


Less Sparks, More Glow

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Post-Canon, feel free to assume either Wild Card or NCR victory, though neither is too relevant to this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They started with the usual overgrown adolescent fumbles, stolen kisses and switchblade grins, smuggling crumbs of affection beneath their sweat-drenched shirts and relentless drills. Then through their various tours, stumbling across one another as much by luck as planning, and then the entire Mojave mess-- those had been desperate nights, times they just needed skin, needed friction, needed to shout themselves bloody and tangle up in one another’s fists and teeth. But now they’ve dulled, softened to something warm and comfortable. Less sparks but more glow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less Sparks, More Glow

Stella knows Cassandra’s left the bed in that soft dark between late night and early morning, but only rolls to take over the warm spot. Pulls the quilt up to her shoulders, nuzzling into her pillow until she hears the creak of the pantry door. When she hears water pouring into the coffee maker, she gets up. Walks to the kitchen with Ranger stealth-quiet, no matter the years since her training. Stops in the doorway, hip pressed to the frame, admiring Cassandra in her oversized sleep shirt. It hangs just past her waist, loose enough to hide the swell of breasts and belly but not long enough to shield the lower curve of her buttocks. Flesh still firm, though skin not quite as elastic as it was ten years ago, maybe, though that might be nostalgia filtering the memories. She’d still take Cassandra, hard head and stubborn jaw, silvered scars and stomping gait, over any of the pretty show-girls from that long-ago tour in Vegas.

“You plan on helping, or just watching?” Cassandra asks, boysenberry-tart. (And that’s a comparison that never would’ve crossed Stella’s mind until they took that trip to Buena Park a couple years back for the berry festival, fingers stained and leaking sweetness out their mouths, bruised-jewel fruits crushing under their own weight as they packed them in the basket. Not a single one survived the journey home, finding an early rest in Stella and Cassandra’s bellies.)

Stella grins, ruffling her hair out of her eyes. “Was watching. Now helping.” The kitchen’s bitty enough it’s only two long strides and a half-step before she’s next to Cassandra, snapping the lid on the tin of ground coffee. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“You know me. I don’t pick fights I can’t win.”

“Be still, my heart,” Stella sighs, hand over her chest as she puts the tin back on the shelf. “That must have been what won me over when we first met.”

Stella doesn’t believe in letting friends or lovers drink alone, especially when Cassandra’s both, so she clinks two mugs on the counter. One a souvenir from their last trip to Shady Sands, the other a blobby blue monstrosity painted by one of her swarms of nieces. Brings back memories of when Cassandra  _ really _ won her heart-- the first trip out to visit Stella’s folks, when four-year-old Alicia proudly gave them the mug and some of the most godawful grapefruit tea and Cassandra pasted on that same bright smile that sent recruits running as she drank the whole damn cup in front of the wide-eyed little girl. Because it takes courage to survive four tours against the Brotherhood of Steel, but an entirely new level of reckless cruelty to disappoint a child.

And Cassandra’s hard, granite-solid and gunpowder-rough, but never cruel.

“Sure wasn’t my tits,” Cassandra snorts, pinching her shirt and tugging to mime udders that would make a brahmin proud. “Hell,  _ I _ forget I have ‘em half the time.”

“Shit. I’m surprised we had the  _ energy _ to do more than just groan at each other after the drill sergeant chewed us over.”

Cassandra’s chuckle is nearly lost beneath the drip of the coffeemaker. “ _ You _ were the one who offered to rub my back.”

“I had only the purest of intentions.” Stella amends herself at Cassandra’s crinkled nose and raised eyebrow. “Fine. I also had a cramp in my calf that was  _ killing _ me and you smelled better than the rest of those assholes. I figured fair trade...”

“Damn, Stella-- you sure know how to choose your words.” Her lips twist in disgust, but her eyes remain bright.

“Well, you sure didn’t say no to my completely-platonic-at-the-time attentions.”

Cassandra leans against the counter as she pours the coffee. Looks damn close to mud as it fills their cups, but Stella’s never been picky about her coffee. Good thing, or she might have left Cassandra years ago. Still, her leg must be bothering her, and trust Cassandra not to complain. Hell, pile the world on her shoulders and she’d only grit her teeth and mutter about how better her than someone else. Stella takes care of that not-complaint by grabbing both mugs and walking them to the dining room table, leaving Cassandra no choice but to sit down with her, so close their knees bump under the heavy oak. A gift from Stella’s sister, oversized for this space, but easier to leave it out than finagle it to the shed whenever family (many) or friends (few) finish visiting.

The coffee scalds away the sour sleep still lingering on her tongue, and Stella savors the bitter in her nostrils while Cassandra drops a spoonful of sugar into her drink. Stella jokes about Cassandra growing sweet in her old age, per usual, and Cassandra rolls her eyes and swats her ear. Also per usual. It's an old joke that only grows more frayed and comfortable in each retelling, like a well-worn pair of bathroom slippers.

“Remember that night by the lake, just before graduation?” Stella says, lit up by the distant memory. Leans against Cassandra’s arm, the feet of her chair scraping on the floor.

Cassandra groans past her teeth, eyes shut. “How could I forget? You told me my cunt smelled like seawater.”

“I  _ said _ you smelled like the ocean!”

“You obviously never been to the beach before.”

And god above, their trip to the beach later that year sure lacked the romance of the old movie reels and dog-eared romance novels-- no making love on the sand with sea-foam lapping at their toes, no gulls crying out above the crashing surf. The sand was  _ gritty _ , decidedly grey and ground-up with little bits of salt and seaweed and general disgust. Plus Cassandra had helpfully pointed out that there were  _ fish _ in the ocean, eels and all sorts of sea monsters like one of them Verne novels. And then Stella’s mind filled in the horrifying gaps-- if things  _ live _ in it, they gotta eat. If they gotta eat, they gotta shit. And if they shit out there, it all stays in the fucking ocean!

Cassandra laughed herself sick, knee-high in the waves and clutching her belly as Stella planted her ass firmly on an old towel and refused to go any farther.

They still made love that night, but it was in the secure confines of four walls covered in cheap plaster, in front of a cock-eyed watercolor attempt at an idyllic ocean scene. Their room was so stuffy they left the window cracked open for the saline breeze, moans muffled on shoulders, hands and thighs to keep from spilling in the night.

God, that was a good trip.

Stella leans close, sleep-cobwebs thoroughly banished by the coffee sitting warm in her stomach. Squeezes Cassandra’s hands-- thin fingers, blunt nails, jutting knuckles loaded for a fistfight-- and thinks of this small house, the two of them filling the walls with photographs and soft portraits, little bits of cozy cross-stitch and the homey scent of hot coffee and biscuits seeping into the floorboards. The half-hearted attempt at roses in the back, now turned to overrun briars. The whole-hearted plot of vegetables, yielding an embarrassment of zucchini and heavy-hanging tomatoes every summer. Cassandra plucks them from the vine and eats them like apples, leaving a peppery tang whenever Stella kisses her. The little practice range they’ve set up with battered soup cans, labels peeling in the California heat. Plus two chairs and a table with a cheap umbrella, perfect for sipping tea in the shade while letting the horde of nieces and nephews ping away at targets with BB guns or varmint rifles.

They bought the house, sure, but they’ve carved the space to be  _ theirs _ . Even an old punching bag set in up the spare room, where Stella can pound and jab and sweat away whatever ails her, or simply enjoy the clean hit of canvas on her fist and the shiver of fresh sweat.

Quiet, voice calm as if commenting on the weather, Cassandra says, “I saw my first gray hair yesterday.”

Stella tilts her head, trying to spot it now that she knows it’s there. “My silver fox.”

Cassandra snorts, lips twisting. Eyes filled with all the grey heat of a summer storm, smile-creases bracketing her mouth with laughter’s track-marks. “If we’re exchanging flattery,  _ your _ silver will look like stars streaking across the night sky.”

“Oh, you’ve been reading poetry again!” Stella bursts staccato laughter, fluttering her hand in mock swoon.

“Only when I can’t find anything better to do.” Between rallying speeches, stern letters, rattling doors and knuckling up against politicians, all the while declaring the importance of a strong and well-funded military-- well, that’s precious little time. No rest for old battle mares, them. Might as well load a gun and fight for peace.

“Oh?” Her thumb skims Cassandra’s knuckles, spiraling to the pulse of her wrist. “I don’t give you better things to do?”

“Only when you’re next to me.” Cassandra tilts her hand, squeezes Stella’s. Brief, firm but not lingering, though they can bask in one another’s presence like old alleycats lazing in the sun.

And there’s something to say for this hazy security, the way their days bleed together like colors in a sunset. They started with the usual overgrown adolescent fumbles, stolen kisses and switchblade grins, smuggling crumbs of affection beneath their sweat-drenched shirts and relentless drills. Then through their various tours, stumbling across one another as much by luck as planning, and then the entire Mojave mess-- those had been desperate nights, times they just needed skin, needed friction, needed to shout themselves bloody and tangle up in one another’s fists and teeth. But now they’ve dulled, softened to something warm and comfortable. Less sparks but more glow.

But even with the coffee, Cassandra’s tired, dripping into herself like a melted candle.

Well, Stella knows what to do for that.

“Since we’re staying up anyway, want pancakes?”

Cassandra cracks a smile, fine lines at the corners of her eyes.

“Yes please.”


End file.
